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See, my beloved Prince, how the air curls in upon itself then bounds
forward again
towards these hills covered with fresh violets. The air, my magnificent
Prince, can't
resist the gently flowing landscape of this region! Just as the lyre, my
adored Prince,
has its own range, timbre and its own harmonies, just as its high keening
momentarily shakes our being to its depths and its solemn music presses
itself upon
our ears with the force of exaltation and stays a long time in the depths
of our souls,
thus too, our hearts, with their massive tremors, have their own manifold
spiritual
qualities.
My beloved Prince, are you listening to me? Dear distracted Prince, you're
still trying
to seize the inner colour of everything you see! O, my Prince, walking in
the summer
light, do you recall, Master, the poem called The Lady Of The Red
Carnations, that,
when you were still small, you couldn't hear without weeping warm tears on
my
breast?
'I have made, from an armful of daffodils, a crown for my Knight
and sewn, from this broad silk more delicate than the petals of a spring
pansy,
a generous robe, a floating robe to dress him for his final voyage!
O gods in heaven, now I am entrusting to you
the radiant body of my Prince fallen for ever asleep!'
translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracy by Norton Hodges
06.10.05.
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